My family and other needy animals

Bereft after her only son flew the nest, Judith Summers decided to become a
foster mother to dogs

Photo: CORBIS

By Judith Summers

7:00AM BST 25 Oct 2010

When he was five years old, my son wrote me a note. 'To Mum, I which I kud lev my famley,' it said. 'The same to you Dad. And I will. Yes!!!'

Horrified that our doted-upon offspring couldn't wait to pack up his Bart Simpson rucksack and be off, I showed it to his father. Udi, who was a psychotherapist, was delighted that Joshua was expressing the love-hate feelings that all children feel towards their parents. It was the most natural thing in the world, he said, that he'd eventually break away and leave us.

But in the event Udi left first: he died of cancer in 1998, when Joshua was eight years old. Eleven years later – having enjoyed the dubious privilege of being the main focus of my attention – Joshua headed off to university, as eager to get away as a racehorse in the traps. As I watched him pack his belongings, I felt as redundant as an old nag left behind in the stables.

Soon after he left, a fox made off with the fledgling robin that lived in our garden. Distressed beyond measure, its parents flew distractedly around the garden, not knowing what to do with themselves now that there was no one for them to feed. How well I recognised the symptoms – it was empty-nest syndrome.

I reminded myself that Joshua leaving home wasn't the end of my world, but a new beginning. After all those years of enforced selflessness, a quality that hadn't always come naturally, I was finally free. But free to do what? I no longer knew. I had friends, family, a career. I'd had relationships since I'd lost my husband but they hadn't lasted, and I was on my own again.

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Being completely responsible for bringing up Joshua had fulfilled me in a way nothing else had, and without him in it on a day-to-day basis my life seemed as insubstantial as the ghost-like spaces on his bedroom shelves.

After Udi had died, our house had felt like a mausoleum, so I'd bought a puppy to cheer us up. George, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, was beautiful, soppy, playful, gregarious, and his presence made the place feel like a real home again. George was now an old boy of 70-plus dog years. Like me, he seemed at a loss now that Joshua had gone, and I had a feeling he was missing him as much as I was. I contemplated buying another dog to keep him – or was it me? – company, but I baulked at the long-term responsibility.

Then I discovered an animal rescue centre called Many Tears. It took in clapped-out ex-breeding dogs, unwanted pets and strays from pounds. While the staff found them permanent homes, they sent them out to live with foster families. For many of these dogs it was the first time they'd been treated decently or lived in a house.

And so I became a dog fosterer, taking in one new dog at a time. As a displacement activity, it worked brilliantly. Gone in a flash was the new freedom I'd found so onerous. My house was again filled with the patter of tiny feet, and giant ones, too, and I was fully occupied on my hands and knees, scrubbing paw marks and worse. From having all the time in the world, I no longer had a minute to myself.

Being a single mother had been a cinch compared with fostering unsocialised dogs that weren't house-trained and had never been taught the basics, such as how to walk on a leash. After a lifetime of neglect and mistreatment, some were traumatised. Others couldn't bear to let me out of their sight. One, a stray lurcher, was as gloriously anarchic as any teenager.

No matter what their problems, I fell for each one. Inevitably, just when I had grown to love them, it was time for my foster dogs to leave. As their new owners led them down the path and out of my life, I felt a visceral wrench.

But it was brief. After nine months of fostering I'd learnt that to let go was as natural as to nurture. It was time for me, too, to move on to new things. My only worry was that my old Cavalier would miss the canine company. But George was all too pleased to have me to himself again.

'The Badness of King George', by Judith Summer, is published by Michael Joseph at £6.99